The ache in my back,
the words in my head,
have caused me to leave
my warm, toasty bed.
Why is that? Oh, I don't suppose
any one will answer the question,
or throw up your hands. Heaven knows.
Words are peculiar; some need to soften
for when I write them down,
I may use them quite often.
I write until my pen runs dry
and grab another, giving it a try.
It writes so faintly I utter a cry.
"For Pete's sake, leave me alone."
So into the trash it must go.
Two pens in one sitting, kind of absurd
as the last pen is sticking.
I like to write, using a pen,
for if I err, I must write it again.